


a thousand lives

by openmouthwideeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, F/M, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: Drabbles, ficlets, tumblr prompts, and assorted oneshots.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imagineagreatadventure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagineagreatadventure/gifts), [Isola_Caramella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isola_Caramella/gifts).



> Based on the prompt "a jaime/brienne coffeeshop au!"
> 
> *no beta seal of approval - all mistakes are mine

Coffee sank onto Jaime’s tongue, saturating his tastebuds with cream-tempered espresso and the sour hint of hair product. It might have tasted better from a cup, rather than dripping down his forehead from coffee-steeped hair, but he wasn’t about to complain. One look at Brienne’s face—caught comically between fury and mortification—and he burst into laughter.

“Let me guess,” he said. “The menstruation made you do it?”

Her fingers tightened on the paper cup. Before she could toss the dregs in his face, he peeled himself out of the sticky chair, shaking out his hair like a wet dog. Drops of cooling coffee splattered the window, his sweater, the laptop of an oblivious college student bunkered down at a corner booth. Fresh freckles sprouted on Brienne’s face and she grimaced, wiping away an errant streak with deliberate irritation.

Jaime’s grin widened. He nodded toward the staircase that led to the _Black Brew_ ’s abandoned living quarters. “Is there a shower up there? If you scrub my back, I’ll wash your hair.” He reached for a lock that had escaped her bun, delighting in the flush that crept up her ears as she swatted his hand away. “I hear a good coffee rinse encourages hair growth.”

“And assholes,” she bit back, not quite under her breath.

He shrugged, conceding her point, and evaded her wayward hand to scrub a streak of coffee from her forehead. Brienne grimaced, studying their shoes, plump lower lip catching in the cage of her crooked teeth. Her skin warmed beneath his thumb, and his blood raced as if he’d actually drunk the coffee, brewing that same unfamiliar feeling in his veins that had set his mouth running in the first place.

He let his hand drop, unwilling to chance another scalding bath.

“Miss Tarth.” The voice was softly menacing, colder than an iced latte. It leached the dregs of heat from the flat white staining Jaime’s once-pristine sweater.

The blush fled Brienne’s face, stealing color from the constellations on her cheeks. She squared her shoulders, jaw clenched as she turned to look at her manager.

“Mr. Bolton.” Her voice was steady despite the slight waver of her freckled chin. “I can explain.”

Her manager shot her a look steeped in bored disdain. Jaime guessed it wasn’t the first time she’d seen it, though it was likely the most deserved.

He stepped between them, eyeing the man’s nametag dismissively. “You must be the manager. Roose, is it?”

The man’s nod was perfunctory. “Sir, I assure you that such unseemly behavior— ”

“ _Roose_ ,” Jaime said, as if the other man hadn’t spoken, “I’d like to extend my compliments to this barista for her exemplary customer service.”

Brienne gaped. Jaime kicked her toe with his heel, smiling all the while. Her teeth clacked together in her haste to close her mouth.

Roose evaluated them with cool eyes, studying first Jaime, and then Brienne, sieving for sarcasm and coming up empty.

“Mr. Lannister. Sir.” He weighed each word like a scoop of coffee grounds, frowning as if disliked the blend. “The _Black Brew_ prides itself not only on the quality of our coffee, but on certain standards of service that— ”

“—my barista has exceeded.”

Roose’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t used to being interrupted.

Brienne shifted, sneakers squeaking her discomfort. “Mr. Bolton,” she began with all the dignity of a martyr, but the busboy chose that moment to arrive with a mop and bucket, stuttering apologies when he sloshed water onto the floor.

Jaime took advantage of Roose’s distraction, reaching back to catch Brienne’s hand. Her fingers spasmed under his, losing their grip on the crumpled cup, but somehow, in the resulting tangle of their fingers, she took his meaning: _Shut up and let me handle this_.

Her teeth ground together as she wrenched her hand away. Jaime flexed his aching fingers, making a mental note to slip the busboy a dragon.

“Mr. Bolton— ” she tried again, but Jaime spoke over her.

“She’s gone above and beyond the call of service.”

The manager refocused on the patron still dripping coffee onto his floor. He looked even more disgruntled than he had a moment before.

Jaime licked his lips, and couldn’t resist adding, “And she makes a _mean_ flat white.”

Roose considered that. “Mr. Lannister, are you asking me to believe . . .?”

 _—that I asked for an impromptu coffee bath?_ Jaime’s scalp prickled painfully. _I suppose I did. After a fashion_. He raised an eyebrow, infusing the expression with all the cool-eyed hauteur he’d learned at his father’s knee.

The man thought better of the question. He retreated a step, and Jaime glanced at Brienne, savoring his victory. She winced, avoiding his eyes.

 _She could stand to bit more grateful_ , he groused.

“Podrick,” Roose demanded, “take over Miss Tarth’s register. The afternoon rush begins in approximately 40 minutes.”

The busboy darted away, dropping his mop in his haste. Brienne fumbled for it, catching the handle just before it toppled the bucket of greyish, soapy water.

Roose fixed his watery, milk-pale eyes on Jaime. “Miss Tarth, gather your things. You’re dismissed.”

Her fingers went white on the mop handle, any trace of defiance splashing down into the murky bucket. Her eyes were wide and desperate and blue, so blue. “Mr. Bolton, I-I’m sorry. My actions were inexcusable, I know, but I—”

“—must face the consequences.” His voice was colder than the coffee drying between Jaime’s shoulder blades.

Brienne’s fingers convulsed on the mop handle. “Yes, sir,” she croaked at last.

Jaime opened his mouth to argue, and bitter liquid dripped from his nose to stain his tongue. Roose buried his protests with the quiet implacability of a snowstorm.

“Mr. Lannister, while I acknowledge your . . . _appreciation_ for Miss Tarth’s skills, I’m afraid our code of conduct is quite clear. It would be unethical of me to allow her to work here with impunity.”

Roose leveled a stare at Brienne that said, _Oh, you’re still here?_ She scrambled away Jaime could get a word out, dragging the bucket after her.

“You know,” Jaime said tightly, “I’ve been looking for a new investment property. Someplace established enough to support new management.”

“I wish you well in it.” The man did not even sound rattled. “Until then, I can offer you a replacement beverage or a refund. Then I’m afraid I must ask you to leave with Miss Tarth.” A smile touched his lips, but the muscles in his cheeks were unmoved. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

 

*****

 

Brienne shoved through the coffeehouse door with such force that it rattled its frame. Jaime sent an absent prayer to the Seven that it was _Roose_ ’s face reflected on the glass in her mind’s eye.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite barista.”

She brushed past him without slowing.

“Hey,” Jaime protested, pushing off the wall. His sweater clung to the wall, stinging his skin as it peeled away. “It’s not my fault the situation was unsalvageable.”

The look Brienne threw him could have peeled his skin from his bones. “You got me fired.”

Jaime snorted. “Yes, poor Brienne, victimized by the handsome man who dumped coffee on himself.”

“You were _rude_.”

“And you’ve never experienced that before.”

Her lips went white in the middle, blood fleeing the force of her ire. Without another word, she turned and stomped away.

Jaime chased after her. “I was an asshole. I’m a Lannister, it comes with the territory. He shouldn’t have fired you over it.”

He’d hoped the admission might slow her Amazonian strides, but her legs kept conquering the pavement at an alarming rate. “You lied to my boss,” she accused.

“ _Former_ boss.”

She glowered at him over her shoulder, eyes smoldering like blue fire in the afternoon light. “Only because _you_ —”

“—decided I’d like a nice coffee bath before my afternoon meetings?”

Guilt flashed across her face until anger chased it away. She turned to continue stomping down the sidewalk.

“You don’t honestly expect me to believe you _liked_ working for a man who looks like a serial killer.”

She stopped so abruptly that he bowled into her, hooking an arm around her waist to keep them both upright. She twisted in his grip, nose smashing painfully against his before she jerked away. His stomach did a strange lurch that was surely caused by misplaced guilt. He found himself oddly fixated by the smear of coffee streaked across her nose.

“Of course I didn’t want that job. I _needed_ it.”

He grinned to cover his unease. “Oh, well if _that’s_ all.”

With no cup of coffee on hand, she had to content herself with trodding on his loafers as she stalked down the sidewalk. Dothraki leather wasn’t meant to take this much abuse. He’d need to ask Pia . . .

“As it happens,” Jaime said, as casually as he could manage while jogging after her, “I have a job opportunity for you.”

She bristled. It made her look like an angry bear barreling down the sidewalk. “I don’t want your pity. I earn what I get.”

“Well that’s ungracious. You aren’t even curious?” When she didn’t respond, he quickly lied, “I’ve been planning to poach you for ages. Your talents were wasted at the _Black Brew_.”

She slowed for a handful of steps before powering back to her ridiculous pace. Sensing weakness, Jaime hurried after her. “We have a patisserie on the ground floor, if that suits you better, with imported coffee and fresh-baked scones. But it’d be a shame to waste you slinging lattes when you could be helping me strong-arm competitors upstairs.”

She stopped. This time Jaime managed to sidestep her, turning his awkward gait into a turn that put them face-to-face.

“You haven’t even seen my resume. How do you know I have the proper work experience?”

He bit back a joke about hot coffee and Targaryens. “Anyone brave enough to work for Serial Killer Roose would be an invaluable asset at Red Lion Enterprise.”

She crossed her arms, suspicion in every line of her face. “Is this a joke?”

His expression soured. He peeled the sweater away from his body. It was mostly dry, but far less white than it had been that morning. “Clearly. Can’t you see the brilliance of it?”

She bit her lip, looking back at the faded sign that proclaimed _King Harren’s Black Brew Coffeehouse_. Confusion skittered across her eyes like the shadow of a cloud on the still sea.

“Your office has a coffee shop?” she asked haltingly.

He rolled his eyes. “If you’re this slow on the uptake, maybe you should apply there after all.”

“But why . . .?” Consternation bunched the freckles on her forehead as she studied the sign.

Jaime cursed himself, realizing what he’d given away.

“I don’t understand,” she said at last.

How had she coaxed free so many pieces, yet somehow turned a blind eye to the picture on the puzzle box?

Jaime shrugged. “I didn’t spend six weeks drinking that watery drek for nothing.” He didn’t know why he’d ducked into that austere café, or what it was that brought him back. But he was loathe to watch her disappear into another thankless job at some coffee shop he’d never find.

Brienne chewed her lip, shifting her weight. Her sneakers squelched faintly—the busboy must have splashed her with that bucket. _I still owe him a dragon_ , Jaime reminded himself. He’d have to remember get his information from Brienne.

“I could interview later in the week,” she offered, unsure. “If you really . . .” She bit her lip. His eyes followed the motion.

 _If you really want me_ , she meant to say. He nearly scoffed at the absurdity—standing on a grimy sidewalk with coffee in his hair.

“How about lunch?” His shoes were nearly dry under the balmy afternoon sun, and surely he could turn up a spare button-down if he riffled through his office. “I could use a latte.”

“Now?” She gaped at him, glancing down at her shapeless sweater and stained sneakers. “Mr. Lannister, I—”

“Mr. Lannister?” He raised an eyebrow. “So we’re pretending you didn’t just douse me in a flat white?”

Redness bloomed on her cheeks, but her chin rose defiantly. “Mr. Lannister, I apologize for my behavior— ”

“Jaime,” he corrected her. “If you don’t leave that ‘Mr. Lannister’ crap at the door, I might not find a position for you after all. It can be dreadfully confusing, you know, with a dozen _Mr. Lannister_ s staring down their noses at you.”

“ _Jaime_ ,” she repeated, more carefully than was warranted with the scent of espresso trailing him like cheap cologne, “I want a proper interview. Not some position cobbled together because you got me fired.” He snorted at that, but she ignored him. “You can’t just throw an interview together! I don’t have my resume or my references, and I’m not dressed appropriately— ”

“Yes, how embarrassing for you,” he broke in, but she seemed to miss the absurdity of her statement. “Just airdrop your resume onto my phone. Isn’t it on the Cloud?”

“I—no.”

“ _No?_ ” He raised his eyebrows at her, and she crossed her arms. She seemed to be entirely serious.

 _The interns are going to hate you_ , he thought, amused.

“Tomorrow,” he relented, digging a business card from his pocket. Miraculously, it was still readable, though perhaps that had to do more with the color than a lack of coffee. “My personal number is on there, too, in case you miss the subtlety of the crimson lion statues out front.”

“I can do tomorrow,” she agreed, reaching for the card. Their fingers didn’t brush—they weren’t teenagers, and this was a business arrangement, not a first date—but he watched her calloused, freckled fingers tighten on the card stock until it dented. She shifted her feet, as awkward as ever, but fledgling hope stirred in the depths of her eyes. “Lunchtime?”

Poor Pia might have a heart attack rearranging his schedule, but she was compensated well enough to deal with it.

“I’ll reserve the tea room.” A smile brightened his face like cream clouding through espresso. “Forgive me if I don’t trust you in a coffee shop just yet.”


	2. the sting of victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We could all do with a little distracting today. An abandoned plot bunny for JB Week '16.

Her lips were dry and warm on his, chapped, peeling, but soft for all that, drawing him in deeper. For a moment he forgot himself, lost in the hesitant thrum of her breath stuttering between broad, crooked teeth to puff pleasantly against his own. Then those teeth snapped shut, costing him a nipped lip as he jerked back to reality.

Brienne rubbed the back of her neck, wincing. “I—sorry, I—” She drew her hand away and stared at it, befuddled by the dark, sticky stain on her fingers.

Jaime grinned, licking the blood from his lip as Tyrion crowed behind her, paintball gun banging against his knees as he stepped into the clearing.

“Nicely done, brother,” he said. “I knew the gods cursed you with that utterly distracting face for some good purpose.” He mirrored Jaime’s grin, craning his neck to boast their victory to the enemy. “You’re quite hard to catch, you know?”

Jaime waited for the explosion. _Unsportsmanlike conduct, rules of fair play_ . . . He’d heard it from one end of campus to the other, in dorms and bars and lecture halls.

Brienne dug furrows into her lip with her teeth, skin nearly splitting from the pressure. She could’ve broken his jaw from the force of her stare.

“Come now,” Jaime teased, “there’s no need to get angry. No one likes a sore—”

He blinked, and the words died on his tongue. That wasn’t righteous indignation glittering in her eyes.

Before he could do more than gape, Brienne whirled, disappearing through the trees. He wondered if he’d ever unsee the water wobbling on her lashes like blood clinging to a knifepoint.

“I think,” said Tyrion slowly, “that was poorly done. You might’ve told me she was in love with you.”

Jaime made a startled noise, part laugh, part choked denial. “She’s got a boyfriend.”

_Idiot that he is._

He shook his head, dispelling the strangeness of the last quarter hour, and affixed the customary smile on his face. “Maybe he has a penchant for jealousy. She likes him too much to want to knock his teeth in, but he could push her to it.”

“Brother—” Tyrion began, but Jaime cut him off.

“Are we winning this paintball game or not? I did promise you that victory keg.”

Tyrion pursed his lips, staring off in the direction Brienne had disappeared. Then he shrugged, fumbling his gun back into his arms. “We’d best find a new strategy. Unless you have a pretty red wig in your pocket, that one won’t work on Clegane.”


	3. knight in shining spandex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really leaned into this one, guys.

“I need your pants.”

Brienne’s desperation fanned over Jaime’s ear, ruffling his hair like a lover’s caress. He stopped in his tracks and she barreled into him, clutching his arms to stay upright. But instead of scrambling away with a blush, as three years of quasi-friendship promised, she pressed her sports-bra-flattened tits against his back and used the momentum to pin him against the wall.

If Jaime’s breath went a little ragged, well, who the hell expected that kind of behavior from Brienne “Eternal Virgin” Tarth?

“Hey, Tarth,” he greeted as casually as he could. Students streamed around them, but her breath in his ear drowned out the chatter. “You know, if you want to get me out of my clothes—”

“Jaime, _please_.”

Her voice curled around his ear, trailing phantom fingers low in his stomach. His muscles clenched, and suddenly Jaime was a little _too_ familiar with the wall. He shifted pointedly, reminding his body that they were Not Interested, but all that accomplished was wingmanning his tearaways with her spandex.

_Not helpful._

“Finally sick of your practice jersey?” He wasn’t above using the team manager’s asshole prank to his advantage, and right now he _really_ needed to get her off him. “I can help with the ‘virgin’ part, but it’s a little late in the season for a reprint.”

Jaime forced a smile and ground his ass into her thighs. She canted her hips away as he knew she would, blushing hot enough that he could feel it radiate against his neck.

She didn’t let go.

_Fuck_.

Her fingers caught in the crook of his elbows, flexing. He had the bizarre thought that she was restraining herself from pantsing him right there in the hallway.

“Track ran late and someone stole my sweats and if I’m not in Chem. Lab in six minutes, Dr. Tarly will dock me 50%.”

“He can’t do that, it’s against school policy.”

“To dock _male_ athletes for sports-related absences.” He felt her shift, peering down the emptying hall. When she caught sight of the clock, her grip became hard enough to bruise. “Jaime, if I drop below a C average, I’ll—”

“—lose your football scholarship.”

_And Essos will crush us_. _Fucking Tarly_. Jaime needed to have a serious talk with Coach Dayne about antiquated school bylaws.

“Have no fear, my fair running back. Your knight in shining polyester is here.” He aimed a smile at her, half expecting her to kick him.

_“Thank you,”_ she breathed, sagging against him.

Jaime’s smile faltered. She was warm and damp, still smelling of sweat. It was only a few seconds before she stiffened, scrambling away, but the damage was done. He angled away from her, picturing Professor Qyburn’s dissection lab in all its gristly glory.

The nearest restroom housed a row of urinals, but Brienne didn’t seem to notice. She held out a hand for his pants, fingers moving in a jerky _come hither_ motion. She was still in her track gear, all pale thighs and black spandex, and he briefly considered levelling the playing field by ripping off his pants like a stripper.

_You don’t want her heart attack on your conscience,_ he told himself. All those snaps while the clock went _tick, tick, tick_.

He wriggled out of his pants, leaning his ass against the sink to tug them over his shoes. She snatched the warm-ups from his hand, not sparing a blush for his snug red boxer briefs. The muscles in her thick thighs tautened as she balanced on one foot, transfixing him with the shift of freckles across dry, milky skin. Her fingers ate through the material of his pants until they were bunched in her fist like a pair of tights, and she tucked her knee to her chest to shove her sneaker through.

Jaime couldn’t resist. “You’re just going to leave me here in my underwear?”

She jerked, and he watched the muscles in her leg fight to keep her upright.

“If you do, I’m trapped in this bathroom for the next 120 minutes.” He crossed his arms, flexing absently, and felt a rush of satisfaction when her eyes traced the motion, skittering over his abs and down, down, down. “School policy,” he added unnecessarily.

Brienne yanked her eyes away. With a last, desperate look at the clock, she shucked her shorts and threw them in his face. He gaped into the warm spandex, praising the Warrior for her aim, even as he cursed the other Six that he’d never know if Coach Stark had won The Great Panty Line Battle of Women’s Track. By the time he could see again, Jaime was alone with the closing door.

It took him a few minutes to gather himself, and several more to wrestle into her shorts. At least Brienne was his size. If it had been Margaery in need of a rescue, he would’ve been well and truly trapped.

Straightening the hem of his boxer briefs—they came a good two inches below the spandex, creating a thick stripe high on his thighs—Jaime strolled into Tarly’s chemistry lab. The class was working diligently, though his EastWatch only read 2:02. Tarly was that kind of asshole.

“Professor.” He smiled as the man’s face darkened. _Doctor_ _Tarly_ , he could practically hear the dick thinking. “I need Tyrell.”

Jaime leaned against the doorframe, stretching out his legs as fifty students and the TA raked their eyes over him. It took him a minute to find Brienne, hunched in the corner with a bunsen burner blazing merrily away. Every scrap of mortification she’d avoided in the bathroom fed a blush as bright as his underwear.

Tarly didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. “This is a classroom, Mr. Lannister. I won’t have you disrupting my students’ education on a whim. No matter who your father is.”

Jaime shrugged. “Official team business. Do I need to quote Section 4, Article 7? _‘Male students enrolled in organized sport—’”_

“Tyrell,” Tarly barked before he could finish. “Outside.”

Jaime turned, gesturing Loras into the hall. The class snickered. From the corner of his eye, Jaime saw Brienne go pale. Doubtless she’d reached the same conclusion he had. He followed Tyrell outside before she could do something noble, or stupid, or stupidly noble and get herself in trouble.

Tarly closed the door with deliberate force, but the murmur inside the lab transmuted into a cacophony of conversation. The glare the professor aimed through the glass could have melted Valyrian steel.

Loras leaned against the wall, propping the heel of one loafer on the toe of the other. “What do you want, Lannister? I said I’d stop missing practice.”

Jaime smiled blandly. “I seem to be missing my pants. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair?”

Loras’s eyes darted toward the lab. His jaw tightened. “No.”

“Warm-ups?” Jaime pressed. “Sweats? Nothing?”

Tyrell crossed his arms. “I thought this was _team_ business,” he complained. “Your crossdressing isn’t my problem.”

“Isn’t it?” Irritation bled through Jaime’s calm. “Then you won’t care if I put you on probation for it.”

“ _What?_ ” Loras sprang to his feet, anger and shock warring on his face. “Fuck you, Lannister. Where do you get off—”

Jaime reaquainted him with the wall. Chairs scraped on the other side of the plaster, but Jaime barely noticed. He leaned in, forearm tight on Loras’s windpipe. “Where do _you_ get off sabotaging a teammate? You think we can beat Essos without her? Your ball handling skills are all flash and no substance, Tyrell. Without Brienne we don’t stand a fucking chance.”

Loras’s eyes narrowed. Jaime latched onto it.

“Or is this about handling your boyfriend? He can’t stand to play second-string to a girl, is that it?”

Tyrell shoved him away. “Renly is worth a thousand of Tarth. You think the Eternal Virgin can lead us to victory?” His eyes fell on Jaime’s legs, skin and spandex and a stripe of crimson underwear. He snorted. “Or not-so-eternal. Inchfield told us how she made first string.”

Jaime almost smashed his teeth in. Never mind that Tarly was watching through the window, begging for an excuse to suspend him. Never mind that he’d be booted from the team without getting scouted. If it weren’t for Brienne—poised to burst into the hallway, Chem. grade be damned—Loras Tyrell would be sneering through a red smile.

“Three games, Tyrell,” he snapped. “You miss _thirty seconds_ of practice, you’re off the team.”

His wrist buzzed as he crossed the quad, but Jaime ignored it, just like he ignored the tittering of the students caught between classes. He slammed the door to his dorm and shoved an extra pair of warm-ups into his gym bag, in case some other asshole decided to get Brienne naked without her say-so. Hadn’t Hyle Cunt taught them anything?

Word of Jaime’s chemistry lesson had spread like wildfire, if the string of waiting texts were anything to go by. Tyrion vacillated between curiosity and mockery before sobering with a promise to put Father on social media blackout. Brienne had broken her “no phones in class” rule to lecture him in a series of increasingly frantic texts. And Cersei’s name graced his screen for the first time in months with a snide text about “everything I’m not missing in the Riverlands.”

When a perfunctory knock broke the silence, it was almost a relief.

“Show’s on until dinner,” he called.

Brienne peered around the door. When she caught sight of him on the bed, tanned legs on full display, her neck jerked up so fast that he worried she’d pulled a muscle. He smiled as lasciviously as he dared, but she was busy making friends with the ceiling tiles.

“Jaime . . .”

He’d always marveled that her grace evaporated like sweat the second she stepped off the field, and today was no exception. Her footsteps were stilted, faltering halfway across the room.

“I just . . .” She scrubbed her palms outside her thighs until her finger caught on a snap, popping it open. She snapped it closed with a blush and crossed her arms beneath barely there breasts, as far away from his tearaways as she could manage. “I wanted to thank you. For the pants.” Her eyes met his. “And . . . after.”

Jaime cleared his throat. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Loras Tyrell, and which of her track friends helped screw her over.

“Did Tarly dock you for leaving your seat without permission?” They both knew his sarcasm was unwarranted. The man should’ve been a kindergarten teacher. Or the host of Kraken’s Kitchen.

“No.” She rose onto her toes, bouncing in an unconscious calf stretch. The loose material of his pants hid her legs as they elongated and released.

_Those belong in the bin_ , he thought. One of the snaps didn’t even work.

“I think he was afraid you’d tell your father.”

Jaime snorted. “Do I ever?”

Her shrug was a little awkward. “You always threaten to.”

Long fingers picked the pilling on her track shirt. “Thank you for standing up for me,” she said at last. “You didn’t have to and I—I—”

He rolled off the bed, stretching languidly. A full on sunset flared across her crooked nose, pink and red and every color between. Her wide mouth twisted the way it did when he showed off in practice, and half a dozen emotions danced across her big blue eyes. Annoyance, as always, took center stage.

“But couldn’t you have waited until you had _pants_ on?” she demanded.

“I did have pants on.” He gestured at his crotch, relishing the sight of pink swallowing her ears. “They’re more comfortable than you’d think. In fact, I might keep them.”

Her nose scrunched, painting pale white lines across the pink. “Jaime, I ran in those. They’re disgusting.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he admitted. “But if you insist . . .” He made for the waistband, laughing when she yelped and covered her eyes. “Shy all of a sudden? You stripped me to my underwear not two hours ago.”

She dropped her fingers to glare at him. “By _necessity_.”

Jaime was surprised she didn’t chuck something at him. He eyed the medicine ball at her feet, weighing the risk.

“So . . . I’m not getting my pants back?”

“After I wash them. And you wash _those_.” She gestured vaguely at his lower half, making a face. “Why haven’t you changed yet?”

He ignored that. “You know, people will think we’re dating if you insist on wearing my clothes around campus.”

Color dipped to kiss her collarbone, and Jaime couldn’t resist a self-satisfied smile.

Brienne bristled. “Everyone already thinks that, Jaime.” Her expression shifted from irritation to mortification and back again. “And it isn’t my fault.”

His smile soured. How far had Loras spread his filth? He should have crunched those pretty little teeth.

“Tyrell is an asshole,” he said. She buried her face in her palms. Jaime took half a step forward before he caught himself. “C’mon, Brienne, you’re too much of a badass to let Hyle 2.0—”

Clearly she’d had enough. Brienne reached him in two long strides, clasping his shoulder in an implacable grip. Her palm was warm, wide, as soft as it was coarse where it brushed the side of his neck. His stomach lurched. He was pretty sure she could snap him in two if she cared enough to try.

She pushed him backwards, ignoring his token protests, stopping abruptly when they reached the mirror. She swallowed hard. Pointed. Glued her eyes to the desk, the carpet, the hamper, with dirty clothes strewn about its base like sycophants around a throne.

Jaime found his reflection. Her hand on his shoulder, pale and freckled against his tan. His thin shirt, stretched by muscles he worked hard for, trailing cotton until it brushed the waistband of her spandex.

And there, scrawled in neat gold Sharpie across his ass: _Property of Brienne Tarth_.


	4. apocalypse rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm 100% incapable of forming a coherent sentence for SS atm, I decided to dust off this draft instead. It's basically a short writing exercise from JB week that's never going anywhere. 
> 
> WARNING: Angst ahead. I'm serious you guys. It was an angsty premise, and I started drinking during edits, and somehow it just got angstier.

The world whimpers its way to a finale and gasps its last breath on the sand.

It always starts the same way: someone gets greedy (knowledge, money, power, the feeling of being _untouchable_ , but they never are). Someone gets stupid. Someone fights back. Loses. The world staggers on, and Brienne with it. She grows harder, sharper. Brittle. Dragonglass where once was steel. The moments blur, lengthen to infinity. Stale days and harrowing nights. Allies lost to mistrust before they ever break bread. Stretches of sand unending, so cold she fears she’s dead already, dust in an unmarked grave.

And then the discovery. Hope like bile on her tongue. A kaleidoscope of conjurers whose arts burn white-hot and turn her vision black. Vomit dappling her boots, spattering the plush carpet of the tasteful one bedroom apartment west of Wendish Town. The one she thought she’d forgotten.

And Jaime. Warm and vibrant and _alive_ , rude and cruel and as thoughtless as ever. Nothing she wanted until he was gone.

 _Jaime._ Always Jaime, until she gasps her last in the unforgiving wasteland, pleading with stars that blink sightless above a sea of nothing. They are the only warmth that lingers, the only light in the world.

Or is that her?

“Jaime,” she beseeches the sky. The world heaves, colors lurching. Blackness idles on the edge of sight, patient now as she succumbs. She tastes _red_ on her tongue, sharp and bitter as half a dozen lifetimes winding inexorably toward the same desolate end.

“Just once more. Please. Let me see him again. Just one— ”

The world reels back. Too late.


	5. drive!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt _“You were chased by the cops, got in my car and just yelled ‘Drive!’” AU._

Two things happen at once: the light turns green, and someone jumps into her car.

“Drive!”

Brienne slams her foot on the brake, sending the stranger careening into the dashboard with a squeak of protest. She throws her car into park and yanks off her seat belt, shifting into the best fighter’s stance she can manage in the limited space. The trespasser is built and blond, with a doughy middle that jiggles as he rebounds into the passenger seat.

“Who are you?” she demands. She wedges her shoulder into the door, giving herself more room to fight back. “Get out of my car!”

“Are you deaf?” the man demands. Twisting to look over his shoulder, he lets loose another high-pitched whine. “We need to _move!"_

She gapes at him dumbly. He returns an impatient look. A siren pierces the angry honking behind them, and her carjacker hunches down, yelping as he bangs his forehead on the dash trying to force his shoulders below the window frame.

A city watchman careens into view, tires squealing and lights flashing. Brienne fumbles open the door to flag down the cruiser. She flattens against her car, stomach sinking, as it speeds by, but it jerks to a stop at the end of the block, peeling into reverse.

Something moves in her peripherals. She dives back into the car, grimacing as her ribs scrape the gearshift. Jerking the keys from the ignition, she throws them behind her, where they clatter to the pavement.

The carjacker glares, looking for all the world like he actually thought she’d let him steal her car. “Do you get pleasure out of making my life difficult?” he gripes, collapsing against the passenger seat like a sulky teenager. Then he _growls_ at her.

“I— ” Brienne sputters. “You— I don’t _know_ you.” The doors jerk open before she can add, _But I’ll happily add head trauma to your list of troubles._

“Alright, ma’am?” an officer asks while his partner manhandles the handsome stranger from her vehicle.

And he _is_ handsome, she realizes, now that he’s not hunched in her front seat, glaring. Tall and leonine, with no hint of the beer belly she’d seen earlier, he accepts his handcuffs impatiently. His gleaming, golden stubble draws attention to his grim smile, which hints at secrets she’d really prefer to know.

The words “domestic disturbance” drift through the door, and her jaw snaps shut. She hopes he broke his nose on the dashboard.

“Ma’am?” the other officer demands her attention. He has her keys in hand, all suspicion and pressed dress tans, and Brienne realizes she has no hope of making it to Goodwin’s retirement party. “If you could step away from the vehicle, I have a few questions.”

 

* * *

 

It’s not until she’s halfway home—tense, tired, and a good two hours late—that her other hitchhiker makes himself known.

_“Meow.”_


	6. Stargaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Stardust AU for an anon on tumblr, who prompted _stargazing_.

Jaime put a hand on the fallen tree trunk, hoisting himself up and over to land on the precarious edge of a crater. Through wisps of smoke and ash, stars illuminated the treasure at the bottom: a heap of molten rock that gleamed silver in the moonlight. Victory coursed through him, sweeping away the ache in his feet and the weariness in his shoulders. He tilted his boots forward, skidding down the steep, uneven dirt into the belly of the crater. Visions of his cousin danced before his eyes as he approached her fallen star—Cersei all in white, sweetly smiling as she hadn’t in years. For him, and him alone.

The sky rock shifted, and Jaime froze. In none of Tyrion’s endlessly boring astronomy lectures had he mentioned the dangers of unstable space debris. But then, denied by the Citadel, Tyrion had never glimpsed a shooting star except through the telescope in their grandfather’s observatory. And he’d certainly never scaled the Wall into the icy, mythical world beyond.

Jaime eased forward as the rock moved again, glimmering and oddly graceful. It shifted in the dirt, rolling over with an almost pained groan to reveal the ugliest woman he had ever seen. Her face might have been carved from slag, to be kicked aside as more precious celestial bodies were carted away. If blood had framed that wide, crooked nose, he might have suspected she’d been caught in the blast. But she was pale all over, from her freckled skin and stardust hair to the satin of her silver gown.

Wincing, the woman touched her side.

Jaime blinked away his surprise. Rooting through his pockets for a handkerchief, he picked his way across the broken earth.

“Did you fall in face first?” he called.

Her head shot up, fingers clutching her ribs. Fear flickered across her face, as fast and bright as a shooting star. He paused, listening to her boots scrabble for purchase as she hoisted herself to her feet in one lumbering motion.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Someone who can bind those ribs, once you stop dancing around like a skittish cow.”

She seemed not to realize that she’d been probing her side as she spoke, each wince souring her already dour face. She stopped abruptly, forcing her hand away.

“Why would you help me?” she asked suspiciously.

“Do you see another soldier in shining waistcoat lollygagging about?”

She said nothing, so he drew closer. Silently, he assessed the crater, piles of dirt and molten rock that dipped inexplicably toward the place where she’d lain, curled in an indentation that seemed to fit the curve of her hip, faint though it was.

 _Some other fool must have run off with Cersei’s rock._  Someone from the Citadel, he supposed. Who else could have moved a molten boulder in the time since he’d crossed the Wall? But if the woman had seen something . . .

Jaime put on a charming expression, smiling up at her as he squatted at her feet. “Tell me, my lady, did you see a fallen star pick itself up and walk out of this crater?”

Drawing his knife, he reached for her hem. Only quick reflexes saved him from a broken jaw. He evaded the knee she’d aimed at his chin and caught her leg before she could draw back for another attack. With a sharp yank, she was back on the ground, grunting in pain. That didn’t stop her from landing a boot in his back as she scrambled away, glowering at him as she regained her feet.

He matched her glare for glare. “Bloody ungrateful wench,” he said, pushing to his feet. Did she expect him to bind her ribs with a handkerchief the size of a tea cozy? Or perhaps she imagined him the sort of monster that terrorized ladies in the wilds beyond the Wall.

“What do you want of me?” she demanded. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of a knife. _His_ knife.

Cursing himself, Jaime circled her, looking for an opening. “Manners?” he suggested. “The ladies of my acquaintance know better than to attack a man who’s only trying to help.” _Well,_ he amended, remembering his cousin’s more forceful caresses, _most of them do._

“Men don’t help,” she spat, matching his steps.

“Ah, one of those, are you? As you please. Toss me my knife and point me in the direction of that star, and I’ll leave you to your lick your wounds in peace.”

His knife glinted with reflected light from her silvery gown, but the brightness of her eyes seemed all her own. “My heart will _never_ be yours,” she said fiercely.

His laughter burst free like a bird startled from the brush. “Have no fear, my lady. I would not expect you to offer it.”

No lightness broke her stony visage. Calm and fierce, she spoke as a soldier facing a foe. “I assure you I will not die easily.”

Anger sliced through his mirth. “Whatever tales your septa might have spun, I have no intention of killing you either.”

“Then what do you want?” she asked, desperation bleeding into her calm. “I only want to go home.” Her head lifted skyward, to the place where the moonmaid hid her face. She’d been more bashful than usual these past two nights; one of her stars seemed to have winked out of existence entirely. 

The motion aggravated the wench’s tender ribs. She grit her teeth and hissed.

Jaime sighed. Taking a large step back, he lowered himself onto a pile of scorched earth, resting his arms across his knees. “I want you to take that knife and cut a strip from your hem,” he told her. “I’m sick of watching your face contort into such hideous expressions.”

It took four long minutes for her to oblige. Jaime counted, fishing out his pocket watch to speed her on her way. At last she hunched over and cut a ragged strip from her gown.

“You can leave that there,” he called, nodding to the knife. “I’ll retrieve it when you’re gone.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously, but there was no way to bind her ribs while holding the knife. Her teeth clacked as if she meant to bite it, but at last she dropped the blade to the ground, kicking it behind her.

 _Now,_  ordered the soldier in his head, _while she’s occupied._ He ground his boots into the dust and thought of his cousin instead, the way her laughter had fizzed in his brain like summerwine when she said, _‘Yes, Jaime. Catch a falling star and put it in my pocket, and I’ll marry you instead.’_

“I meant no offense,” he told his unwitting companion. Idly, he watched the muscles of her abdomen shift beneath the satin as she pulled the bandage taut. Catching his line of sight, she stiffened and went red—the first hint of color he’d glimpsed in this bleak, white world. She ducked her head, fingers tangling in their attempt to escape his presence faster.

“If you must know,” Jaime found himself saying, “it _is_ a heart I’m after.”

She froze, eyes flicking to the knife out of reach.

He snorted. “Never fear, wench. I have no desire for yours.”

She frowned, tying off the bandage and looking up at him. He expected her to flee, but she merely said, “My name is Brienne.”

A halo of stars seemed to sparkle as she said it, and for half a heartbeat, she looked almost lovely, cradled by the loving night sky. When he shook his head, she was painfully plain again.

“Jaime,” he said softly. Clearing his throat, he made his tone glib. “It was for love that I crossed the Wall to seek a shooting star.”

She flinched.

“Have you been beyond the Wall?” he asked. “Do you fear the same strange tales we do, of men a hundred feet tall and creatures made of ice?” Snorting, he went on. “I would fight a thousand dark creatures for my cousin’s hand, but she wanted a star, so that is what I swore to find.”

“If you found this star,” she said at last, “what would you do with it?” From the steel underlying her voice, his response might earn him his knife back, stuck squarely between the ribs.

Jaime shrugged, pushing to his feet. “Whatever Cersei wishes. I imagine she’ll tuck it on a shelf somewhere and forget its existence.” He smiled wryly. Understanding fell into place as the words found his tongue. “It’s not the star she wants. It’s knowing how far I’ll go to get it.”

Brienne’s mouth worked soundlessly, now timid now angry now sad. “And how many impossible tasks does love cost?”

His expression darkened. “You’re never likely to know.”

A twig snapped in the distance, echoed by the shuffle of boots on the forest floor. A low murmur of voices caught his ear.

“—over that ridge.”

“There weren’t no bleeding star,” said a reedy voice. “T’aint the first time your drunken eyes have mistaken torchlight for magic.”

Brienne’s eyes went wide. So bright and so blue.

Jaime darted across the crater and snatched his knife from the ground. His arm encircled her waist before he’d thought to move it, curled low on her hip to avoid her ribs. He shivered at the heat radiating from her skin, a stark contrast to the cold world beyond the Wall. She dug in her heels until a third voice hooted a laugh, and then Brienne grit her teeth and started to climb. Injured as she was, he had to half haul her up the craggy crater wall. Together they hunkered behind a thicket, as a handful of men in dark, travel-stained furs emerged from the trees.

“I told you I seen a falling star!” said the first man, nearly tripping in his haste to descend into the crater. “Look ‘ere,” he called, toeing the spot where Brienne had lain. “Made a dent and everything.”

His companions joined him in the crater. One dropped to his knees and tugged off his glove to press a hand to the scorched earth. “Still warm,” he announced.

“She couldn’t have gotten far,” said the little one excitedly. “They always get hurt in the fall.”

_She. They._

Brienne crouched beside him, tensed to flee or fight. Struggling to make sense of what he'd heard, Jaime turned his head and found himself caught in her gaze, so clear and blue that her eyes almost glowed, framed by moondust lashes and a constellation of freckles. Heat seemed to build between them, emanating from the fire that flamed to life under her skin. The fear in her eyes gave way to a determination so strong it could’ve illuminated the skies, and for a moment, Jaime believed.

Abruptly he dropped his hand from her waist, edging back until he hit a tangle of branches. Excited voices drew his attention; he watched the men follow his bootprints over a fallen tree and into the forest, well across the crater from where he and Brienne crouched.

His heart pounded in the silence, searching for something familiar to hold onto. _Cersei,_  he thought, but her name was oddly difficult to grasp. _The star._ That was easier.

“Well, wench,” he said at last, “it looks like you owe me a debt.” Brienne met his gaze, wary, but strangely free of suspicion. Something twisted in Jaime’s gut, victory or guilt or some familiar feeling he couldn’t quite put a name to. He put on his brightest smile. “How would you fancy a little journey beyond the Wall?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always welcome :)


	7. bake off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **imagineagreatadventure** prompted: _I used to be the best baker in the neighbourhood but then you showed up at Mrs Appleby’s 80th birthday with a stack of brownies which almost gave me an orgasm my honour is at stake and I’m going all out for the next event - jxb_

“Who knew that a plate of brownies was all it took to compromise the integrity of the noble Brienne Tarth?”

Warm breath tickled her ear. Brienne jerked around, glaring into Jaime Lannister’s unfairly handsome face. “I didn’t _buy_ these if that’s what you’re implying.”

He leaned in, invading her space. She stiffened and Jaime snagged a lemon bar off the plate behind her, laughing.

“I’m implying,” he said around a mouthful of pastry, “that you’re bribing the judges.” He nodded in the direction of the birthday girl, surrounded by a horde of preteens. “Everyone knows the Stark girl’s mad for lemon.”

“I’m not _bribing the judges.”_ She fought to keep the indignance out of her voice. From his sudden grin, she’d done a poor job of it. “It’s called ‘strategic baking’, Lannister. Look it up.” Turning her back on him, she set about rearranging the presentation of lemon squares that had been ruined by certain attractive, irritating bakers.

“I’m not the one who turned this into a war,” he said, but the way he leaned against the table to catch her attention, licking confectioners sugar from his fingers, fed something hot and angry in her stomach, and she was certain he knew it. When she twisted to face him, her stomach swooped like a launching catapult.

“You brought brownies to Walder Frey’s birthday party,” she accused.

“And you ate three before deciding to turn the day into a modern Red Wedding,” he countered. His voice dropped, toeing the line between mockery and enticement. “Catelyn,” he imitated, “tell me these brownies are terrible or I’ll murder your family. Roslin, promise they didn’t give you an orgasm.”

She elbowed him hard in the ribs, glancing around for little listening ears. “I didn’t say that,” she hissed.

“Your eyes did.” His expression was smug. The effect wasn’t spoiled at all by the sugar clinging to his lips. In fact . . .

“Bake off,” she challenged abruptly. “Same ingredients, same recipe, same kitchen.”

His eyes sparked, setting off a chain reaction that pricked goosebumps across her skin. Seven save her, but the man was irritating.

“Lead the way, Tarth.” He gestured toward the house, looking for all the world like he’d won already.

She pushed past him. “Prepare to lose, Lannister.”

 

* * *

  

Brienne stomped back to the party, dusted head to toe in flour except for the dark stain on her long, thick neck.

“He bought them at a bakery,” she announced stiffly when a handful of guests turned to see the spectacle. When she caught Catelyn’s eye, she reddened through her veil of flour. “Can you remind me where you keep the vacuum?”

“And maybe the bleach,” Jaime added, sauntering from the house with white handprints on his jeans and a wicked grin on chocolate-stained lips. “See, Brienne? I told you my brownies were orgasmi—”


	8. flickers in the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For isolacaramella's Friday Fast Fic Challenge on tumblr: one word prompt, less than 500 words. The word was **flicker**.
> 
> Anyone who knows me knows how much I overthink fic, so this certainly was a challenge! But it was one I needed, so thank you <3

Candlelight bathed Brienne’s skin, illuminating warm swaths of freckles-and-cream until the flame flickered and faltered and shadows stole her skin away. Settling against her back, Jaime chased the freckles up her thigh, wondering whether he’d ever know them in the sun, or if her dappled skin was lost to the light like everything else.

A rush of breath escaped her, sharper than the wind howling outside. The candle guttered out. He caught her as she turned, too eager to pretend he did not anticipate the warm press of her chapped lips to his. He tasted her teeth, listening for the faint whistle as his breath careened between the crooked sentries to collide with hers. Her skin was almost as rough as her tunic, leached dry by bleak winter, but it did not matter when he drug her tunic up her thigh.

Someday, if the gods were good, he’d spread her out beneath the unforgiving sun and revel in the sight of her, from the callused feet scraping pathways up his calves to the hair that rustled like dying grass in his hand. He’d seek out every scar: ones he’d made, ones he’d matched, ones she’d earned without him. He’d count every damn freckle until his head swam like he’d drowned it in summerwine.

Until then . . . 

The world was ending, and Brienne unfolded beneath him, and Jaime Lannister did not care a whit if the gods were good.


	9. table for two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragging this over from the tumbl. Written for the prompt: "are you??? Sabotaging??? My dates??"

Jaime swirled his wine, watching his assistant usher Pia past the hostess stand in the vain hope that a commiserating ear would soothe the sting of a wasted night. Her pouting disappointment over Jaime’s “work emergency” seemed genuine enough, but he wasn’t foolish enough to believe she’d ask him out again. She hadn’t even gotten her salad.

Peck rushed forward to get the door, and Pia graced him with a smile every bit as charmed as the ones she’d given Jaime. She had five years on the boy — maybe more — and by the wide-eyed wonder on Peck’s face, he wouldn’t make the same mistakes as his boss. 

Jaime wished them well.

Tilting back his glass, he drained the last of the Arbor red. Dry and faintly sweet, it had an undercurrent of spice that grew on him the longer it lingered on his palette. Which reminded him…

He fished out his phone.

“You sent a patsy this time,” he said as soon as the ringing stopped, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a carefully rehearsed explanation. 

“Peck isn’t a  _ patsy.” _ Trust Brienne to get affronted on the boy’s behalf when he’d pretty much just stolen his boss’ date on her orders. “Something came up at work, which is why I need you in the first place.” The  _ ‘obviously’ _ went unsaid. “Besides, I thought he’d be better at—”

“Ruining my date? Don’t sell yourself short, wench. You did a great job with Ami.” 

Not that  _ that _ particular date had gone well for anyone but Ami. But he had to admit, the glorious blush that overtook Brienne’s face whenever he mentioned it almost made those uncomfortable hours of “accidental” groping worth it.

“It’s none of my business what you do in your personal time,” Brienne said stiffly.

“Is that why you keep sabotaging my dates? I was beginning to wonder.”

Her sudden, stony silence might be accompanied by a withering glare or an indelicate flush depending on where his quip had struck. Jaime decided to push his luck.

“Or maybe you’re just jea—” 

“Are you coming into the office or not?” she demanded, flustered and fragile and clearly itching to punch him in the nose.

Jaime sat back in his chair, thunderstruck. 

She  _ was. _

Pia . . . Ami . . . Hildy . . . When was the last time he’d finished a date with the woman he’d started it with? He racked his brain, but all he could remember was Brienne in a half-lit office, rolling those splendid blue eyes at him over documents that weren’t half as important as she’d made them sound. 

“No.” Jaime flagged down the waiter for another bottle of Arbor red. He wondered if she heard his sudden smile the same way he heard her bitten lip, crooked teeth embracing a mouth so full it swallowed them whole. Idly, he pictured himself tugging her lip free, replacing her teeth with his. “You’ve already ruined my date, wench. The least you could do is let me finish dinner.”

She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry about Pia, okay? I’m sure if you ask, she’d jump at the chance to go out with you again.”

The waiter arrived, uncorking the wine with a subtle flourish. 

“I’ll wager she’ll be too busy jumping Peck.” 

_ “Peck?” _

He had to smile. You’d think Peck was  _ her _ assistant the way she mothered him sometimes. 

“Wasn’t that your plan?” he asked innocently as the waiter handed him the cork. He gave it a cursory sniff, but he was already nodding his approval and gesturing his glass to be refilled. “Regardless, there’s a bottle of wine on the table. I could polish it off, but I don’t make a habit of driving impaired.” 

Brienne was chewing her lip again. He could sense it as if she were already sitting across from him. 

He motioned to the waiter while she mulled it over. Turns out, it’s quite difficult to gesture your way through,  _ The lady left, but don’t worry, there’s another one on the way. Can I get another glass?  _ but somehow, he managed.

“I suppose I could . . . come to you? I can bring you up to speed while you finish eating. I know it’s inconvenient, but I’d feel better if we could get straight to work.” 

Gods, she truly didn’t realize what she’d been doing. 

His grin widened. “If you insist, wench, I’m all yours. Try not to sabotage things this time.”


	10. dragon eggs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anon on tumblr: _Jaime and Brienne, still at the frenemies stage, must organize a local Easter egg hunt for kids. Jaime, because of a new PR stance that the family company is taking to improve their standing in the public eye. Brienne, because of Catelyn/Margaery/Sansa or someone being involved in local charities and nudging Brienne to be involved too._

“Do you  _ want _ this event to fail?” Brienne rounded on Jaime, face contorted in a glower that did her no favors—not that anything would. Her over-full lips had gone straight from red to white, skipping the more feminine pastel of the pink plastic Easter egg at his feet. Her huge, freckled fingers gripped her garbage bag so tightly that he could see her spotted knuckles through the plastic.

“What I  _ want _ is to empty this bag so I can make it to the bar before my sister realizes they’re serving mimosas.” 

All morning he’d been stuffing down irritation with every egg, hating the way Brienne swallowed her complaints about the pathetic droop of his half-filled bag. For months she’d been calling out slow emails and unscheduled phone calls, demanding that he respect her time, her plan, her charity, but the minute he actually screwed up, she went mute. When she’d started silently dropping every other egg into his bag, he’d gotten sloppy, palming shut eggs that sprang open the second they hit the pile, causing her to lose even more time digging for fallen candy to restuff them.

_ Good, _ he’d thought, struggling to close an egg one-handed while she watched the clock, lips pressed together, saying nothing.  _ I don’t need the pity of Renly’s horse-faced charity case. _

By the time they’d hauled their bulging bags outside, he’d abandoned any pretense of helping, littering eggs on the grass like a flower girl strewing petals. After three long hours of boiling in misery like a poached egg, Brienne Tarth finally cracked. 

“Hundreds of children are on their way to take part in the  _ 1st Annual Casterly Rock/Storm’s End Easter Egg Prowl. _ The proceeds could provide unprecedented breakthrough in greyscale research, changing thousands of lives. It would be helpful,” she added in the same tone one might use to tell someone to jump off a cliff, “if the kids had something to hunt.”

Jaime gestured back the way they’d come, where a trail of Easter eggs marched back toward the pavilion. “Follow the pastel-plastic road.”

“Don’t you take  _ any _ pride in—”

“The power of good PR?” He dropped another egg, taking some small satisfaction when it cracked and rolled, spilling its sugary treasures before catching on a tree root. 

Stomping over, Brienne snatched it up, brushing off the dirt before stuffing the candy back inside. “This is supposed to be a fun community event for the kids,” she all but growled. “Not an excuse for your family to stand around looking pretty.”

She stumbled on the word ‘your’ and he laughed, wondering when she’d decided to tack on the ‘-r.’ 

“No excuse needed.” He tousled his hair in that artful way that always wound up trending on Raven, eyeing her from her sneakers to that thin, flyaway ponytail. An insult bloomed on his tongue like sour candy, but she looked so fiercely protective over her stupid bag of eggs that he took pity on her. 

“Since this is so clearly your first charity function, I’ll let you in on how this works.” Digging for another egg, he dropped it onto his shoe, bounced it up to juggle from knee to knee, then drop-kicked it toward the grassy knoll bustling with caterers, journalists, and a disapproving figure who could only be his father. “All the donors care about is looking good in their pastels. All the kids care about is candy. And all your boss cares about is making himself a nice holiday bonus.” 

“Renly started Storm’s End Foundation for his  _ niece,” _ she said with all the heat he remembered from their phone calls.

“And because everyone loves a tender-heart in a good grey suit.” 

Her nostrils flared. 

_ Case in point. _ He kept that one in his head, though only just. Her crush on her boss was well-trod ground, and the appeal had worn off somewhere along the way. Instead, he eyed the stylized lion cub on her t-shirt, grinning toothily above its basket of cartoon Easter eggs. 

“You should invest in a good grey suit,” he told her. “I’d tell you to fire whoever put you in pastels, but I’m pretty sure it was you.”

Her face flushed, mottling like the dyed quails eggs Margaery Tyrell had seen fit to order with the hors d'oeuvres. Brienne’s fingers broke through the plastic bag, making the eggs rustle and clack like they were about to hatch. She twisted the neck around her hand in a swift, practiced motion that he couldn’t help but envy. She looked like she wanted to bash him over the head and watch the bag explode like a piñata.

“Why are you here if you’re not going to help?” she demanded. 

_ To prove I’m still capable of more than giving speeches. _ The thought was so ludicrous that he almost laughed aloud. 

“For the children, of course.” 

Her eyes bore into his, judging him like the Father, like  _ his _ father, and for an instant, he wondered if she’d heard everything he hadn’t said. About the accident, the slow recovery, the even slower loss of everything that had mattered to him. 

He made himself smile like she was a reporter waiting for a soundbite. “And for you, charity-case.” 

“Don’t call me that.” With a huff like an angry bull, she stomped toward him. Her face was all twisted up, as ugly as ever, but her eyes were bright and blue and bold, demanding his attention. When he inhaled, he could smell chocolate half-soured on her breath, snuck when she’d thought he wasn’t looking. 

“Is this where you kiss me to shut me up?” 

Her arm jerked up, and for a minute, he thought she might punch him instead. But she leaned in, looking so determined that he wondered for one mad second what he’d do if she  _ did _ shut him up. 

“If you want to help, then help. If you’re not going to bother, go find your brother. The Little Lions Hunt is  _ supposed _ to be easy.” And she stomped away, leaving his rescued egg tucked into the notch of a tree branch. 

Popping open eggs until he found a piece of chocolate, Jaime tucked it into his cheek, skinning off layers with his teeth. “Yours aren’t any harder to find than mine,” he called. “But mine won’t cause a lawsuit when some kid breaks his neck because he’s not a damned giraffe.” 

She ignored him, stooping to hide an egg in the mouth of a ragged hole that irony demanded belonged to a rabbit. 

“You know the kids have to collect them, right? Preferably without needing paramedics.” 

“It’s abandoned.” 

“I didn’t realize you had a degree in forestry, Tarth.”

“I didn’t realize you’ve never been outside before.” Her expression should’ve been paired with an outstretched tongue, freckles bunching on her nose like she was five-years-old. With her broad face and bulky shoulders, the sight was so unexpected it made him want to laugh.

“Care for a wager, Brienne?” 

It was only a suggestion to pass the time, to see what other ridiculous expressions he could coax from her face, but Brienne’s features snapped shut like one of those stupid plastic eggs, hiding herself inside. Even her eyes were wide and wary, wiping out all those months of reluctant calls and early morning emails.

“Why?”

_ Why? _ He didn’t know why if truth be told. It’s not like she was particularly pleasant company, stomping around with that dour expression and preaching about the needy. Maybe he should help Tyrion with the toddler hunt. 

“I thought you wanted me to try.” Dropping his bag of eggs, Jaime fished two gold-dragon notes from his wallet. He emptied an egg onto the ground, pleased when irritation cracked the cool plastic of her features. Stuffing a dragon inside, he fumbled it closed. 

“Two eggs. Two dragons. Last one found takes the prize.”

He tossed her the egg and she caught it one-handed, holding it like she expected it to burst into flame. 

“What prize?”

_ ‘A date for charity,’ _ he almost said, if only to break through that wall of suspicion, but she was braced as if for a blow and he found himself wondering how many times she’d heard it before. “A place on some kid’s hero list. Who cares?”

For a second, he thought she might toss the egg back in his face. Instead, she pushed to her feet and hoisted her trash bag over her shoulder, still holding the dragon egg gingerly. It struck him suddenly that she truly believed in all this: swallowing her pride and tromping through the grass in a goofy t-shirt to make some stranger’s day. 

“Fine,” she said without an ounce of irony, “but only for the kids.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s just a dragon,” Jaime grumbled, following Brienne through a field of trampled grass and scattered plastic eggs. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t prepared to lose it.”

“It’s a  _ gold-dragon note,” _ she insisted, squatting to poke through a shrub that had seen better days—namely ones where it hadn’t been shredded by a hundred tiny hands on sugar highs. “If nobody found it, it should go to the foundation.”

When Rickon Stark had come bounding up to the pavilion, gleefully waving a small fortune and an empty yellow egg, Jaime had taken a sweeping bow and waylaid a server carrying a tray of champagne. He’d shoved glasses into Tyrion, Daven, and Aunt Dorna’s baffled hands before raising a heartfelt toast to Brienne’s complete and utter failure to run an egg hunt. 

“I’m not drinking to that,” she’d hissed, snatching the last flute and clutching it to her chest with both hands.

“And I’m never winding up on some kid’s hero list,” he’d countered, clinking his glass with hers and taking a swig.

She’d finally relented, taking a terse sip while Daven rambled about the joys of freckled women until even Aunt Dorna knew they weren’t talking about his girlfriend anymore. Tyrion finally took pity on Brienne—who’d looked twice as uncomfortable as Jaime felt, despite clearly having no idea the conversation was about her—and diverted Daven’s attention with some humorous horror from the morning’s toddler corral. 

“And you wanted to abandon me to those monsters,” Jaime accused her, leaning close so he wouldn’t disrupt Tyrion’s story. His brother’s tale became more animated, perhaps to hide the fact that none of them were paying attention to it, not even Tyrion. 

“You would have fit right in,” she muttered back, but a smile touched her lips at Jaime’s snort of laughter.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a sore loser?” 

He offered her his elbow. When she ignored it, he caught hers instead, dragging her over to where a flock of parents waited for their kids to abandon the hunt.

“Haven’t you heard of a gracious victory?” she complained, finding an empty bar table and planting her elbows on the white linen tablecloth.

“As a matter of fact, no.” He leaned toward her, sporting his cockiest grin. “Care to wager on who finds mine?”

She refused—a wise decision, as it turned out. No kid came racing across the lawn, crowing over a blue plastic Easter egg containing a gold-dragon note. By the time the last family wandered away, scrubbing their child’s rainbow-stained fingers with a linen napkin, Jaime had been forced to concede his victory. Brienne, he was learning, was as tenacious as a kid with a basketful of candy. Which was how he found himself wandering the grounds long after the donors had gone home, searching for a stupid plastic egg.

“It’s just a dragon,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. “We’re wasting more time searching than it takes to earn one.” 

“For you. Some people aren’t so fortunate.” She raised her chin. “A single gold-dragon note can support a patient for—”

“You know,” he interrupted before she could climb onto her non-profit soapbox, “that dragon might be destined for some poor homeless sparrow. It’s heartless of you to rob him of a hot meal and a warm bed just because you’re a sore loser.” 

Pulling out his phone, he typed “ _ Storm’s End Foundation” _ into the search bar. A few clicks later and Jaime Lannister was being thanked for his generous donation. 

He showed her his screen. “A dragon for greyscale research. Satisfied?”

Brienne pushed to her feet, frowning at him. Her shoes were muddy, jeans grass-stained, and there was a leaf nesting in her hair. The sight almost made him smile. 

“You don’t have to stay,” she said. “I can hunt for it on my own.” 

“And who’s going to keep you honest? If one of us finds it, I win our wager.” 

When she crossed her arms, her t-shirt bunched up, making it look like the lion cub had latched onto her freckled forearm, gnawing playfully as the Easter basket swung from her elbow. “You can’t win if you find it. You’re the one who hid it.” 

“Even if it’s for charity?”

She made her way toward a little garden he was positive he hadn’t stepped foot in before. Rolling his eyes, he followed her inside. 

“You could find a hundred dragon eggs and you wouldn’t wind up on Renly’s hero list,” she told him plainly.

It might have been the tinge of bitterness, or perhaps her quiet acceptance, but Jaime found himself saying, “I was aiming for yours,” without an ounce of irony.

For once, Brienne’s blush looked almost pretty, stealing across her cheeks with the first swell of sunset. Truth be told, he didn’t know why he’d stuck around except that it felt wrong, somehow, to abandon her to the fruitless quest he’d set her on. 

“There’s a group of teenagers on the hill getting drunk on leftover champagne,” he told her. “We could ruin their evening if you’d like.”

Brienne whipped around, and something eased in his chest. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him with expectation, or the hope that he’d meet it.

Once she’d satisfied herself that the kids weren’t playing champagne-pong with the crystal flutes, she turned back to him, thoroughly unimpressed. He wasn’t surprised that Brienne Tarth, the most stubbornly self-righteous person he’d ever met, was incapable of spotting teenage rebellion.

“Or . . .?”

“Or we could tell them there’s a dragon egg out here for anyone sober enough to find it.”

She chewed her lip, considering his proposition. Considering him. Dusk settled in around them, turning her eyes to twilight. Jaime wondered if she would stay until the stars came out. He wondered why he wanted her to. 

“We can’t leave them without supervision,” she said finally. 

“Then we’ll supervise. From the pavilion. With a bottle of champagne.” 

The look she sent him was unexpectedly shy—or maybe it was only the fading light tangling in her long, pale eyelashes. 

“Okay.” Her voice was quiet, sure. When she touched his arm, he shivered at the startling warmth of her in the cool evening air. 

When he tried to smile, it wouldn’t come. 

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is much loved.


End file.
